


why do I feel like this?

by mrsmelchiorgabor



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:30:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2057469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsmelchiorgabor/pseuds/mrsmelchiorgabor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: AU: General Milkovich is the head of the CIA. Ian Gallagher is given the task of writing his biography. Things develop from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

‘…and at nine-thirty you have a meeting with Mr Ian Gallagher,’ said one of Mickey’s many assistants. He stopped trying to remember their names a long time ago.

‘Who is that?’ he asked. Gallagher…he didn’t recognise the name. Nice name, though, Mickey considered. Nice ring to it.

‘He’s the young man writing your biography? I told you about this a month ago, again last week, and again yesterday, Mr General,’ the girl told him, trying not to sound too annoyed. Around here, that sort of thing got you fired.

‘Right. Yes,’ Mickey said distractedly. ‘When do I have to see him?’

‘Nine-thirty…that’s in ten minutes,’ she told him, as they arrived at his office.

He nodded. ‘Get me a coffee,’ he ordered, collapsing into his large chair and yawning. The girl nodded and left the room, glad to escape. Mickey knew he was mean. He couldn’t help it. In this job, you couldn’t afford to have a conscience.

His eyes drifted to the pictures of his family. His wife, Lana, and their children. Mickey didn’t even love Lana. He’d married her for money and status. It was what he had to do in order to get ahead. He presented a carefully sculpted image to the world. To the outsider, he was many things. He was a family man with traditional values. He had an enormous house and more money than he knew what to do with. On Sundays, he went to church, went hunting and bought something home for dinner. He’d partake in racist jokes if he needed to. He’d voiced his support for don’t ask, don’t tell and his opposition for gay marriage. He badmouthed Obama in public. He sent his kids to private schools. He held honorary degrees from six universities. He said homeless people were not people. He evaded his taxes. He’d never lifted a finger in his life. The country loved him. But all these things were not what he was really about. Truthfully, Mickey didn’t know who he really was. He’d spent his entire life pretending and lying to get ahead. He’d been doing this for so long that he had no idea what was fake and what was real anymore.

His assistant came back with his coffee and he drank it quickly. It was almost nine-thirty. He sighed and sat up in his chair, remembering that he ought to be on his best behaviour for Mr Gallagher. Mickey chewed a mint to kill the coffee smell on his breath, as someone knocked on the door.

‘Come,’ he called out. A young man entered. Micky was speechless for a moment, taking in the man’s slim yet sturdy frame, his soft red hair, his lightly freckled skin and piercing eyes. He shook himself out of his daze. ‘Ah. Mr Gallagher,’ he greeted, holding out his hand.

‘Mr - I mean, General Milkovich, it’s a pleasure - no, an honour, to meet you. Sir,’ the man stammered. Mickey smiled, finding his nerves somewhat endearing.

‘Likewise,’ he returned, as Ian took his hand. That first touch was like electricity to Mickey. He held on, for what was perhaps slightly longer than necessary.

‘Um,’ Ian murmured, feeling a little awkward. Mickey dropped the younger man’s hand quickly, and walked backwards, away from him. There was a pause as the two stared at one another, unsure what to do. It was Ian who spoke first.

‘Shall we get started?’ he suggested. Mickey nodded gratefully.

‘Yes. I was about to say the same thing,’ he said, even though that wasn’t remotely true. He’d lost the ability to speak coherently upon touching Ian.

‘So. General Milkovich,’ he began as he set a dictaphone on the table, but Mickey interrupted.

‘Please. Call me Mick,’ he said softly. Ian nodded stiffly and Mickey could have sworn he was blushing.

‘Yes. Mick,’ he complied, loving the way the word tasted in his mouth. He idly wondered how Mickey would taste in his mouth…but snapped himself out of it. This man was the head of the CIA for god’s sake. He was married, with kids. And he was a racist and a sexist - and a homophobe, Ian reminded himself. ‘Let’s talk about your childhood,’ he began, retrieving a notepad from his bag.

-

Mickey didn’t realise how much time had passed until Ian began packing away the dictaphone. They’d gotten over the initial awkwardness and fallen into an easy conversation. He’d been worried about saying something wrong, but Ian had explained how the dictaphone writing method worked - Ian would go home and listen to the tape, only typing up the sections of conversation that were relevant. He would then show this to Mickey, who would have final say about what went into the book. So Mickey felt much more comfortable in that respect. However, he’d been feeling something odd in his chest the longer Ian talked. It wasn’t a pain or anything; it wasn’t even bad, really. It was the way Ian laughed, they way he would run a hand through his hair, the way his eyes sparkled with each smile. But Mickey was fairly certain that he wasn’t meant to notice things like that.

‘We’ve been at this for nearly three hours, you know,’ Ian remarked, glancing at his watch.

‘Really?’ Mickey replied, momentarily distracted by the way Ian’s shirt rode up slightly as he slung his bag over his shoulder. He could see pale, toned flesh exposed, and in that moment he wanted nothing more than to touch Ian, kiss Ian…Mickey turned away and held his head in his hands. Why was he having these thoughts? He’d never had these kinds of thoughts. Ever. He suddenly realised how rude this must look, and turned back to Ian, who was watching him worriedly.

‘Are you alright, Mick? You’re acting - strange,’ he said hesitantly.

‘I’m fine,’ he snapped back, glaring at the floor. He couldn’t look into Ian’s eyes. He couldn’t. Not those eyes.

‘It’s just - I mean, I don’t know you, but - ‘

‘Yes! Precisely! You don’t know me, you know NOTHING about me, so why do I feel like this?!’ Mickey shouted, frustrated tears beginning to fall. He’d really lost it. This was an entire life of holding himself back and closing himself off, twenty two years of false marriage and fourteen years of having the most stressful job a man can have. He was the head of the CIA…the head of the CIA. He ran an internationally recognised, prestigious organisation. He was one of the most respected and powerful men in the world, even though no-one truly knew him. They couldn’t, because not even Mickey knew himself.

Ian slowly walked over to him, passing him a tissue. As he took it, Mickey felt Ian touch his arm, squeezing it gently in reassurance.

‘I’m sorry,’ Mickey said, voice thick with tears. Ian shook his head.

‘No. Don’t apologise. We all need to cry sometimes,’ he comforted Mickey. They sat in silence for a moment before Ian asked him, ‘What did you mean before? When you said you felt ‘like this’? What did that mean?’

'That - that was nothing,' Mickey muttered.

‘Mick,’ Ian said gently, tilting his chin up so they were eye to eye. ‘Mickey,’ he said again. ‘Tell me,’ he all but whispered.

Mickey opened his mouth to talk, but no sound came out. Instead, he found himself reaching up to Ian and kissing him. He decided to stop thinking about what all of this meant. He just wanted to feel. He’d never felt anything. And now he was feeling everything.

// please like/comment and send me prompts on tumblr, mrsmelchiorgabor.tumblr.com :) //


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a week since Mickey had met Ian Gallagher, and each day he’d been reliving it. Not just the kiss, but the way Ian spoke. The way his lips curled into a smile. The way he ran his hand through his hair. His handshake. His eyes. And his fucking lips.

A knock at his door jerked him out of reminiscing. ‘What?’ he yelled angrily. He was at home in his study.

The door opened. It was his wife, Lana. ‘Hey honey,’ she greeted.

'What do you want?' he asked, staring at the papers on his desk.

'Dinner will be ready in five minutes,' she said brightly.

'I'll eat it in here.'

Lana sighed. ‘The kids haven’t seen you for nearly two weeks, you’ve been so busy. They’re so excited that you’re actually at home for sunday night dinner, for once. Don’t disappoint them,’ she implored.

He shrugged. ‘That would be inconsistent,’ he muttered.

'Mickey, for fucks sake. I know you've always been indifferent to me but please, they're your children. And they're young and innocent enough to still see some good in you, god knows how. They're not old enough to realise how shitty their father is. Are you really so cold? Are you really so incapable of loving those two sweet kids? I don't ask for anything anymore, not for myself, because I know you're too selfish to give a damn about anyone but yourself - but these are your children,' she repeated.

'I don't care. I have no relationship with them. I don't even know them.'

'And whose fault is that?'

Mickey looked away, unable to meet her eyes.

She sighed. ‘I love you as little as you love me, but I love those kids more than anything. I love them so much. And seeing their faces when you don’t show up for anything, it kills me. And if you do ever put in an appearance, you end up shouting at them for no reason. And I’m the one who has to listen to them crying. I’m sick of it. One day, they’re going to hate you. Believe me. Because one day I woke up and I hated you too,’ she spat, slamming the door on her way out.

Mickey took several deep breaths, eyes closed. Then he grabbed his jacket and exited his study. He walked downstairs, and into the porch. He turned around to put his shoes on, and saw his two children stood at the other end of the hall. They were looking at him, smiling, excited. They thought he was going to spend time with them. But he wasn’t. He stared at them for a moment as he laced his shoes, then turned away from them and left his house.

-

He was in one of his cars, speeding down the DC suburbs. He didn’t know where he was going. He shoved an old Dylan CD into the player and half listened as he turned onto the highway. He didn’t know how to be around his kids. He barely knew them. He had no clue how to start being around them now. And he didn’t want them to know him because they’d probably hate him.

He’d been driving for over an hour when he saw a sign for New York. He’d not been to Manhattan for years. And right now, getting lost in crowds amongst the skyscrapers was exactly what he wanted. So he kept going, ignoring exits for Baltimore, ignoring exits for Philadelphia. He drove and drove.

When he reached Jersey, he switched the CD to Springsteen. Felt appropriate. He drove by the bridges where Tony Soprano made deals and shot people, the sight of it piercing his eyes, filling them with tears of nostalgia and the pain of time gone by. He wiped them away furiously and focused on the road. A sign told him he’d been at the Lincoln tunnel in twenty miles. Then New York was a stone’s throw.

Then the lyrics started jumping out at him. ‘Sometimes it’s like someone took a knife, baby, edgy and dull, and cut a six inch valley through the middle of my skull’ came Springsteen’s gravelly voice. Mickey breathed in sharply as the truth of it hit him. ‘At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet and a freight train running through the middle of my head’ followed, and that’s when he finally gave up and let himself cry. And that was when he realised that he couldn’t remember what happiness was.

Then he thought of Ian. He thought of Ian because Springsteen moaned ‘only you can cool my desire, I’m on fire, I’m on fire’ and then he hit the steering wheel in despair. He was gay. He was fucking gay. And only Ian could make him feel alright. When he’d been with Ian last week he’d felt free for the first time in his life. He’d known what attraction was. And without Ian, he’d been burning, he’d been on fire. Only Ian could put this fire out. The fire that burned behind his eyes, the fire that burned in his heart. He was fucking tired of always being on fire, always burning up. Forever a pile of ashes. But Ian made him rise like a goddamn phoenix. As he entered the tunnel, he reached for his wallet until he found the scrap of paper with Ian’s number. He dialled.

'Hello?' came Ian's voice. Mickey's heart practically skipped a beat.

'Hi. It's Mickey,' he said.

'Oh - oh, hi,' Ian said, sounding a little shocked.

'Just to let you know that this line is probably being tapped,' he said quickly. He couldn't afford for anything to be revealed. 'I need to see you. To discuss - business.'

'Ok…where are you? I don't know if I can get a train out to DC at this time,' Ian said apologetically.

'Not in DC. I'm looking at the Manhattan skyline. Right now,' Mickey told him.

'Oh, you're in New York?'

'You're - you're at Columbia, right? Grad school? You in the city?' he fired the questions at him.

'Yes to all,' Ian replied. 'I'm downtown at the moment, though. I can meet you in Washington Square Park?'

'Ok. I'll be there in twenty,' Mickey hung up, not giving him time to ask questions or reveal anything.

-

He walked around the park for a few minutes before he saw Ian. ‘Hey!’ he waved. Ian smiled and came over. Mickey was careful to keep at least a foot between them. Ian saw this and didn’t try to come any closer. They looked at each other a moment before Mickey spoke. ‘I know it’s late,’ he began, but Ian shook his head.

'I go out most Sunday nights. Don't worry,' he said. 'So. What brings you to the city?' he asked.

'You,' Mickey answered simply after a pause. Ian stared at him, shocked. 'I drove five hours from DC.'

Ian’s mouth dropped open a little. ‘Why? Are - are you ok?’

Mickey shook his head. ‘Look, I’ve been going crazy this past week. I can’t stop thinking about it.’

'Yeah, me neither,' Ian confessed.

There was a pause. ‘I think I’m gay,’ Mickey said quietly. ‘No - I am. I am gay.’

'Wow,' Ian sighed. 'I'm not going to tell anyone, obviously. Have you always known?'

'No. I've never been crazy about any of the women I've met but I didn't think I was gay. But recently, I've seen myself more clearly. And you're the only one who has ever helped me do that. Kissing you is the only time I've been alive. Only time I've done something that wasn't all in shades of grey. I need you, Ian. If you'll let me.'

Ian listened carefully. ‘I want to hug you, kiss you right now. But I know I can’t,’ he said, glancing around.

'Me too.' They stared at each other, repressing the urge.

'Walk with me,' Ian said after a moment as he headed out of the park and down a street. Mickey followed and they walked side by side, still keeping space between them. 'Don't you have, like, a bunch of security guards who follow you everywhere?'

'Yeah. I just didn't call for them tonight. I needed to be alone for a bit. And then I just wanted to see you. I'm not so recognisable that everyone on the street knows who I am…but some people do. Usually only smart people.'

Ian smiled. ‘I’m flattered.’

'Where are we?' Mickey asked, looking around the Greenwich neighbourhood.

'I'm taking you out. You need it,' Ian told him.

'Taking me where?' Mickey asked. Ian shook his head, smiling. After a few more minutes, they turned a corner and arrived onto a busy street. Mickey glanced up, looking for a street sign. 'Christopher Street? Ian are you crazy? If someone recognises me…'

'Relax,' Ian said, drawing closer. 'They're all drunk. And the clubs are dark. You'll be fine,' he winked. Mickey still felt nervous, but as they entered a club, and he saw that it was indeed very dark, he slipped his hand into Ian's. Ian turned to him and smiled. 'There you go,' he said comfortingly. They reached the dance floor. 'You dance?' Ian asked.

Mickey considered. ‘For you I will,’ he replied. They danced together. The song was ridiculously happy and Mickey jumped to the beat right alongside Ian. The neon lights flashed briefly over Ian’s face, over his brilliant smile, and Mickey couldn’t help but grin back. He pulled Ian close and shouted into his ear, ‘You’re fucking gorgeous, Gallagher.’

Ian laughed, and suddenly started kissing Mickey, without warning. But Mickey pulled away, looking around. ‘It’s a fucking gay bar in the gayest neighbourhood. None of them care!’ he assured him.

Mickey shook his head. ‘I can’t risk being recognised. Can we - can we go to the bathroom?’

Ian smiled and nodded, taking his hand and leading him back. The bathroom was dimly lit, at which Mickey was relieved. He’d been expecting fluorescent bathroom strip lights. But this was more intimate. These cubicles were clearly designed for fucking, and that’s what he intended to do.

Ian locked the door, and then kissed him hard, slamming him into the wall. ‘I’ve wanted to do this since I first saw you tonight,’ he gasped between kisses.

'Yeah? I've wanted to do this all fucking week,' Mickey murmured, his hands gripping Ian's firm hips. 'You have a condom?' he asked after a moment.

'Always,' Ian said, reaching for his wallet and retrieving a small foil packet. 'You're sure?'

'Certain,' Mickey said as he began unzipping his jeans. Ian did the same, and kissed him again before steering him around to face the wall. Mickey heard the rip of the condom packet, felt Ian's hand rest on his waist. 'Ian, I - I've never done this before,' he whispered.

Ian leaned down to kiss his neck. ‘I’ll go slow?’ Mickey nodded, clasping his hand.

It hurt more than he’d expected, but soon it gave way. And then they were fucking slowly, Mickey starting to enjoy it. All at once, something just clicked inside him, and he started moving faster. ‘Fuck slow, just fuck me,’ he groaned, throwing his head back onto Ian’s chest, eyes closed in ecstasy.

It was over all too soon for his liking. They were breathing heavy, and even though he pulled out after a moment, Mickey still felt Ian there. He turned around slowly, smiling with so much happiness, and kissed Ian gently. ‘I kind of wish I’d done that sooner. But then…I think you were worth the wait.’

// idk if I'll continue, let me know if you guys want, please like/comment and send me prompts on tumblr, mrsmelchiorgabor.tumblr.com :) //


End file.
